


leave it to the breeze

by xxpaynoxx



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, transfer fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 10:04:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6978874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxpaynoxx/pseuds/xxpaynoxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>marc goes to say goodbye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	leave it to the breeze

**Author's Note:**

> Marc Bartra's summer release was announced by FC Barcelona at the beginning of May, and naturally, I had to write a fic to compensate for the feeling of my heart being viciously torn out of my chest.

it’s a cold day in barcelona.

marc pulls his coat tighter around him, flashing the security guard his card and a smile, and pushes the door open to the stadium.

“why’d you come back, kid? aren’t you leaving for england soon?”

it’s true; the plane to heathrow leaves in a few hours. but marc shakes his head and smiles, scratching the back of his head.

“there’s a few things i need to do first.”

the security guard nods, clapping his hand on his shoulder. “you did good here, _hermano_. take as much time as you need.”

there’s a moment there, where marc feels himself get a little teary-eyed, but he just smiles again and wipes his eyes. he can’t cry, not in the lobby.

so there he goes, down the stairs and into camp nou, the guard’s eyes burning into the back of his thick black coat as he leaves.

* * *

 

he makes it to the field without crying, so far.

it’s very quiet as he steps out onto the grass, the breeze pushing his gelled hair out of place and across his forehead. he doesn’t fix it, though; he’s too absorbed in memorizing every blade of grass on the field.

he makes it to the halfway line, in the center of a circle he never was able to stand still in, and thinks.

he thinks about the games. he thinks about the games they’d won, and yes, he’d watched them all from the bench, but they hadn’t been any less exhilarating from there either. he’d jumped up from the bench whenever neymar or leo or luis scored a goal, and whenever piqué scored, the entire bench cleared.

he thinks of the celebrations. he thinks of the confetti falling through the air, the bass pounding into his ears, the warm bundle of his daughter still imprinted against his coat, even from last night. neymar had been buzzed, of course, but that had made the ceremony that much more exciting and happy.

the grass crunches under his feet as he walks, turning in a circle and looking at the stands, at the red and blue colored seats. they’re empty, obviously; ready to be sat in and stood up on and spilled drinks and food on during a goal celebration.

the wind is still there, but it’s died down now, and the air is silent. it’s odd, being inside camp nou when it’s empty. it’s like something is missing. lots of somethings will be, of course; douglas and adriano left for better things, and vermaelen returned to england.

but there’s something else he’ll miss. it’s the atmosphere, the _crowd_ , packed to the brim and screaming old barcelona songs as they walked onto the pitch and stood and listened. the energy that seemed to spill over the grandstands and onto the field, fueling the players and the bench throughout the entire ninety minutes.

he feels the tears before he sees them, blurring his vision as he realizes he’ll probably never come back here to play again. he’ll never be able to walk onto this field in the home team’s colors, he’ll never be able to play under lucho again, he’ll never play with the legends he’s been able to run next to and mess around with during training.

they’re dripping down his face now, the tears. he can’t stop them, and he doesn’t want to, so instead he just lets them fall as he watches the clouds gather over his head. he loses track of time, of how long he’s standing there, but the breeze on his face feels good and the chill is gone from the air.

“aren’t you supposed to be on your way to england by now?”

marc nearly jumps ten feet in the air, wiping his face and whipping around to see none other than sergi roberto.

he’s dressed simply, in a large jacket and jeans and sneakers, his hat backwards on his head and his unruly curls poking out underneath. he’s pushing at the paint now with his left shoe, and he doesn’t seem to want to meet marc’s eyes.

“no. well, yes, actually, but i just, i had to do something first,” he stammers, and he isn’t sure why he’s so nervous all of a sudden, with sergi standing in front of him in the flesh, but sergi looks up at him with wide, glassy blue eyes and it hits him like a freight train.

he’ll never play with sergi again. he’ll play with him, of course; for spain, or whenever their coach decides to call him up, but he’ll never play with sergi throughout an entire football season again. that definitely drives a knife through his heart.

marc moves until he’s standing right in front of sergi, cupping his face and forcing it up so they lock gazes. sergi’s shoe is still standing in paint, but marc is too focused on the way sergi’s lips look when he darts his tongue out and wets them.

“you’re going to stain your shoes,” he mumbles.

and then they’re kissing, and marc feels like he’s on fire.

sergi’s small hands have gone into his coat, wrapping around his hips and drawing him so close that their chests collide, marc letting out a little huff of indignation when they hit. they’re gripping onto the belt of his nice pants now, fingers curled through the belt loops to keep marc in his general vicinity, and marc is loving it.

marc’s tongue is in sergi’s mouth now, and he’s memorizing the way he tastes, the way he curves underneath marc’s touch, the way he moans into marc’s mouth when he presses that spot on sergi’s neck with his index finger.

they break away eventually, and marc can barely register before sergi has his arms wrapped around his neck and his face buried into his shoulder, and he’s shaking and crying and marc wraps his arms as tight as he can around sergi, holding his body so close that he might as well become a new appendage.

“don’t leave,” he hears sergi choke out, but marc doesn’t want to tell him he won’t, because that’s a lie. the transfer is done, and all he has to do is go fill out his medical forms in london. it’s over, as much as marc doesn’t want it to be, but it is.

“i have to,” is all he says, and sergi pauses for a moment before nodding and releasing him, eyes shiny with unshed tears as he takes marc’s hand in his.

barcelona is never going to be the same without marc. he’s left an imprint on the club, possibly so small and miniscule that nobody will remember, but the way that sergi is looking at him now, it was significant.

* * *

 

they walk, hand in hand, out of the camp nou, and marc kneels down to kiss the touchline one last time. one last touch, before he’s down the entrance hall.

sergi presses his hand on the familiar blue wall before moving, and marc simply runs his fingers along the wall, along the looping letters of  _Mes Que Un Club._ his fingerprints fade before he even removes them, the board wiped clean from last season, ready to be defiled once more by neymar’s stupid doodles and rafinha’s terrible signature and piqué’s ridiculous comments.

the board waits, just like the rest of the city, waits for next year and the new records and new games and new signings and new euphoria.

and so they go, without a word. down the stairs, and out.

sergi squeezes his hand as they walk through the lobby. the security guard is gone, and it’s late. the streetlights are on, glaring into marc’s vision as they walk through the glass doors and out into the chilly barcelona night.

marc probably won’t make it in england. he’ll probably flop his first year, sit a lot, and only play when someone is injured. but he’s ready, he’s finally ready for that as sergi leads him down the sidewalk and to the garage.

he doesn’t look back.


End file.
